


Confinement

by loves_books



Series: Impregnable [2]
Category: The A-Team (2010), The A-Team - All Media Types
Genre: C-Section, Force-Feeding, Forced Pregnancy, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medical Procedures, Mpreg, Non-Consensual Body Modification, caesarean section
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-30 00:47:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12642720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loves_books/pseuds/loves_books
Summary: It feels as if someone has shoved a huge fist up inside Face's stomach and is squeezing with everything they have. The agony ripples through his lower back and makes his legs tremble and quake, but he won’t give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream. Not again. At least, not yet.There’s nowhere for the baby to go, of course, not until they come with their scalpels to slice him open once more, but already the labour seems endless. It’s been hours now, with no relief and no finish in sight.





	Confinement

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I've chosen not to use archive warnings again, and please please do read the tags before you go any further. I hope I've tagged for everything but please don't read on if you're in any doubt. This is not a nice story.

If Face thought he’d ever suffered pain in his life before the contractions began, he knew now how wrong he truly was. 

It feels as if someone has shoved a huge fist up inside his stomach and is squeezing with everything they have. The agony ripples through his lower back and makes his legs tremble and quake, but he won’t give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream. Not again. At least, not yet.

There’s nowhere for the baby to go, of course, not until they come with their scalpels to slice him open once more, but already the labour seems endless. It’s been hours now, with no relief and no finish in sight.

“It’s good for the baby, Lieutenant, believe it or not,” the doctors had told Face earlier, when he first realised what was finally happening to him, after all the torturous months he’s endured. “It’s good for the lungs. Just hold on for a little while, okay? A few hours, perhaps, no more. We’ll be watching you closely.”

Christ, Face didn’t even realise he had the muscles for this, and it hurts, far worse than he’d ever expected it to. He paces around and around his tiny room, one hand pressed to the wall for balance and the other supporting the weight of his heavily protruding belly as it hangs low between his legs, feel the bunch and clench of his muscles as he fights the strange urge to push. 

He wants it over now, more than at any point in the last nine months. He wants her out, wants his body back, and wants his life back.

More than anything, he just wants to get away from Hannibal once and for all.

* * *

“Don’t you remember what happened?” Hannibal’s voice is worried, his hands gentle as he holds Face tightly against his chest. “You were stabbed, baby, on our last mission. I nearly lost you.”

“Stabbed?” Face doesn’t remember that at all, all he remembers is the nightmare. The sharp pain as his flesh had been cut open and spread wide, the agony as something alien had been forced into his body, and the terror as he’d had no choice but to lie there helplessly, feeling every single second of it. “I don’t remember, John, I don’t…”

“Maybe we should get the doctors to take a look at you, hmm?” Hannibal kisses him tenderly on the forehead, one hand sliding round to rest gingerly over his stitched stomach. “Just a check-up. Just in case. To put your mind at ease.”

And Face lets himself be soothed, gentled, loved. It was all just a nightmare. Hannibal would never let anything bad happen to him.

* * *

It doesn’t go well.

A strange, sickly-sweet odour fills the doctor’s office, and Face is gone.

* * *

When he wakes, he is in an unfamiliar room, lying in a strange bed. He feels dizzy again, and sick to his stomach, and he stumbles as he lurches to his feet. The door, when he finally reaches it on trembling legs, is locked.

“I’m so sorry, Lieutenant.” Hannibal’s voice sounds slightly tinny over what Face presumes are speakers, hidden somewhere in the room. “I didn’t want it to be like this. I’d hoped we could spend this time together, but you’ve forced their hand by trying to fight it. I wish you could have just accepted this and let it happen.” 

“What have you let them do to me, you bastard?” Face hammers on the door, succeeding only in hurting his hands, then spins around as quickly as he dares, scanning the room with sharp sniper’s eyes. “Where the hell am I?” 

No windows, and no other doors. The room is set up like a bedroom, with a double bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers. There is a bathroom area behind a low wall, offering little in the way of privacy, and the large mirror on the far wall screams ‘surveillance’.

A different voice answers him, a male voice that Face recognises immediately from his nightmare, sending shivers through his body. “You’re somewhere safe, Lieutenant. Somewhere you can be comfortable for the next few months, where we can look after you both.” 

“Why?” Face demands to know, anger warring with fear. Why had they let him go, only to lock him up after all? Why had they chosen him at all?

Why has Hannibal let this happen?

But there are no answers, only silence.

* * *

Face tries his hardest to escape, but there is nowhere to go. He tries to break the door down, then tries to smash through the mirror, but they sedate him each time with that sweet-smelling gas that makes his head reel and sends him spinning down to the floor.

“It won’t hurt the baby,” the disembodied voice reassures him the first time he comes back to himself. “But I’d still suggest you stop trying to fight this and just accept it. Remember that the Army owns you, Lieutenant, body and soul. This will only be for a few months, then you can go back to the Rangers, with the knowledge that you will have been invaluable to the advancement of medical science.”

“Let me talk to Hannibal,” Face begs, time and time again, but the answer is always the same. 

“Colonel Smith isn’t available right now, Lieutenant. Be assured that he knows where you are. We’re keeping him informed of your condition.”

Face tries to comfort himself with that thought, though it’s no real comfort at all. Hannibal will get him out of here, surely. Hannibal wouldn’t leave him here, not without an explanation.

Hannibal wouldn’t do this to him. 

* * *

He gets his explanation at last, though he almost wishes he’d never asked.

 _Pregnant._

It can’t be possible, but they assure Face that it is. They’d had a volunteer, apparently, a soldier who was deemed to be a perfect genetic match for the laboratory-grown embryo and artificial uterus they’d spent years developing, and had been willing and even eager to participate in the experiment. 

When that soldier had been killed in a car crash two days before implantation, the doctors had been forced to scramble to find another volunteer. Face’s blood test results had pinged up a match at the last possible minute.

“We didn’t need your permission, Lieutenant, though if we’d had time then of course we would have discussed it with you first.” The doctor sounds dismissive, though Face swears and curses and hammers on the door to his prison cell. “The Army owns you. And your commanding officer has consented to your secondment to us for nine months.”

_Hannibal… Why?_

* * *

He wants it out, whether or not it’s truly a baby. He tries to tear out his stitches, but the surgical incision has already knitted closed. He scratches at his skin instead, but his nails are too blunt and it hurts, and Face is a survivor above all things. He just has to survive this.

Besides, if whatever _it_ is dies inside his body, would they bother to open him up and save him? Or would they simply let it rot, deep inside his guts, poisoning him slowly and painfully?

He’s a survivor, and he’s also a Catholic, though he stopped praying a very long time ago. Perhaps now is the perfect time to start once more.

_Hail Mary…_

* * *

Survival is one thing, but he’ll be damned if he gives in without a fight.

He refuses to eat the food they slide through a tiny hatch beneath the mirror, and after a few days they pump that sickly sweet gas into the room again. He wakes to find a tube down his throat, his body strapped down and held immobile, and the sickening feeling of his stomach being filled without his permission. 

He vomits helplessly when they slide the tube free. 

Next time, he eats the food they give him, hating himself and Hannibal with every bite.

* * *

Weeks pass, and there is no escape, and still no answers.

And no Hannibal.

Face has a lot of time to just sit and think, and inevitably his thoughts turn to the man he’d loved. The man he’d thought had loved him in return. The man he hates, now, for forcing him into this and leaving him here alone.

Has Hannibal been in on the whole thing since day one? How true was the story about the dead volunteer they’d needed to replace at the last minute? Would they really have discussed things with Face if they’d had the time, or had Hannibal long since given his permission?

But then, maybe Hannibal had been forced to agree. Maybe Hannibal hadn’t ever actually agreed at all, and this is all some sick and twisted conspiracy by someone higher up the chain of command, pulling their strings from behind the scenes.

Face snorts, shaking his head.

It’s more likely that he had never really known Hannibal at all.

* * *

Life settles into a routine, of sorts. The days drag by, endless and lonely, though Face is given books to read, and a tiny television, and he is even given a treadmill when he asks. He grows to dread the sweet scent that fills the room in the moments before he passes out, and when he snaps back into consciousness, there is always some new form of hell waiting.

Sometimes he is tied down on a hospital bed, unable to move. Sometimes his chest is tight, and there is an oxygen mask over his face. Sometimes his legs are spread wide, strapped into stirrups and hoisted into the air. Always there are doctors and nurses milling around him, all wearing green scrubs and white face masks, and always there are needles and scanners and hands probing at his stomach, measuring him as his body starts to swell.

They were right. He does indeed ‘pop’ quite naturally, and quite early, too, or so they tell him.

Sometimes he wakes just lying in the double bed, his head on the pillow and his body tucked beneath the blankets, as if he’d simply fallen asleep. These times are worse, almost, than the times when he wakes to find himself strapped down. He has no idea what they may have done to him while he slept.

There is never any pain, thankfully, at least not any caused by the doctors and nurses or their endless tests and measurements. But still, his whole body hurts. Men simply aren’t meant to do this. Or at least, Face’s body isn’t meant to do this.

* * *

He can’t bring himself to obey them or to accept what’s happening to him, and he doesn’t stop cursing them with everything he has, repeatedly asking the questions that are never properly answered. But he does reluctantly stop trying to break free, forced to concede that there’s no way out of his prison cell without a key.

He forces himself to stop fighting when they drug him and he wakes up in restraints, tiring rapidly of the bruises that form over his already-aching body.

More than anything, he tries to avoid looking in the huge mirror that looms large over his prison cell, as his stomach stretches and shifts and grows. He doesn’t recognise what he’s becoming, and if what they tell him is true, then it’s far from over. His body is almost alien already.

His body doesn’t belong to him, not anymore.

_The Army owns you, remember? Body and soul._

His skin feels too tight, the stretch marks already vivid and red on the sides of his growing belly, though it’s barely been three months since he woke up here. His hips feel as if they could dislocate at any given moment, and his lower back is a hot mess of cramped muscles and trapped nerves. His stomach is in knots from the moment he wakes to the moment he falls asleep.

Morning sickness, Face is unhappy to discover, is a complete misnomer. Morning-noon-and-night sickness, more accurately, and soon there is little he can eat without having to immediately lurch towards the toilet. 

As he throws up for the umpteenth time, he finds he has a whole new respect for the female portion of the population.

* * *

He wonders what they’ve told the rest of his team. He wonders what lies Hannibal has spread to cover his absence. 

How can he ever go back to them after this?

* * * 

“How are you feeling today, Lieutenant?”

 _Fuck you_ , is what Face really wants to say, but there’s another part of him that wants to break down in tears. He’s been particularly weepy these last few days, and he figures that’s a perfectly natural reaction to whatever hormones they’ve shoved into his body to help him deal with this ridiculous pregnancy, not to mention the whole ‘top secret military medical experiment’ aspect and his betrayal by the man he used to love. 

He’s also utterly exhausted, and aching, and his stomach is the size of a small house even though he’s only five months along. Still, he swallows his tears, lifts his chin determinedly, and replies, “Just peachy, thanks for asking.” 

“Any movement yet?”

He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, rubbing both hands in soothing circles over the sore skin of his bump. They’ve been asking him that every day for the past two weeks, and he has no intention of answering them.

But there is indeed movement beneath the tight drum of his belly, a rumbling sensation like a distant washing machine, growing stronger by the day. It makes Face want to scratch through his skin and rip his body open to get it out, and yet…

It’s a baby. There’s really a baby in there.

For the first time, it all feels too real.

* * *

Men really, really aren’t designed to do this. By the time Face reaches his seventh month of confinement, he can barely walk. He tries to keep active in case he ever has a chance for escape, though he doubts he could run anywhere, even if the opportunity did arise. His hips and his lower back scream out at him with each tiny movement, his nerve endings all alight with agony and his muscles fighting to cope with the strain of his enormous belly. 

His internal organs feel cramped and almost unable to function, his diaphragm barely able to move downwards enough to let his lungs take a full breath, and he knows the team of doctors and nurses are concerned. During his last check-up, when he’d woken strapped to the hospital bed once again, they’d spent a fair bit of time checking his kidneys and listening to his heart. He’s dizzy, and he has a headache that never seems to fade now, and he can barely manage a few bites of food, even though the morning sickness has long since passed.

This unplanned pregnancy might prove to be too much of strain on his body, even for a Ranger like Face.

Hell, the heartburn alone might just kill him.

But the baby seems healthy enough, kicking away merrily and stretching happily in her little waterbed, bouncing on Face’s bladder and aiming a good kick at his prostate every now and then, just to give him that extra little challenge of being trapped in a permanent state of semi-arousal. He’s jerking off a dozen times a day now, any embarrassment at being observed long since overridden by the sheer desperation thrumming through his veins.

And oh, yes: it’s a girl. They’d taken great pleasure in showing Face the ultrasound pictures to prove it.

He can’t bring himself to care. She’s nothing to him, just a parasite draining him. He just wants it to be over, now.

* * *

He hates himself for it, but he longs to feel a friendly touch. For a supportive embrace, or a soothing hand on his aching body. He’s always thrived on physical contact, and now it’s been months since he’s felt anything other than the clinical touch of the doctors’ gloved hands, or the kicking of the baby sitting low in his belly. 

It’s not enough. But he’d rather die than ask them for more.

* * * 

Only four more weeks to go, so they say, and Face doesn’t bother asking for Hannibal any more. Hannibal is either never available or never there, though he very much doubts they are telling him the truth: he imagines his former lover watching from behind that damned mirror, watching the changes he’s been forced to go through by the baby girl growing inside his stomach, and witnessing the indignities he’s had no choice but to accept. 

He’s absolutely huge. His stomach looks as if he’s swallowed not one but two beach balls, his belly button long since popped out, and his six-pack is a distant memory. When he’s sitting up, his stomach rests heavily on his thighs, and he hasn’t caught a glimpse of his cock for more than four months. Standing, he can’t see his toes, either, nor his painfully swollen ankles.

He’d been secretly terrified that his body would undergo some other changes because of the pregnancy, but thankfully he hasn’t grown breasts, even though his nipples are undeniably tender to the touch. At least they won’t be expecting him to breast-feed the baby they’ve forced him to carry.

There haven’t been any other surgical interventions either. Each time he’d woken strapped to the bed and surrounded by masked doctors, Face had feared it might be the time they took his manhood completely. They could have given him a vagina to go with his new uterus, but apparently that was never in their plans either. 

Small blessings, he thinks bitterly.

* * *

He suffers the agonising contractions in a stoic silence for around six hours before the first scream is ripped from his lips. He collapses to his knees, both arms wrapped tightly around his stomach, panting hard to catch his breath as the pain overrides all conscious thought.

_Please, God, help me…_

When it finally comes, that sweet smelling gas is a blessing, and Face breathes as deeply as he can for the first time since this hell started, eager for the darkness.

At least it will all be over soon.

* * *

Face can’t open his eyes, though he can feel the straps holding his body pinned securely in place, and there is a tube down his throat, air being forced deeply into his lungs in a steady rhythm. He feels strangely detached and removed from the whole process, even as he becomes aware of excited voices murmuring around him.

The baby is barely kicking now. She must want to be out of him as much as Face wants her gone.

Suddenly, a gentle hand sweeps up and over the huge curve of his stomach, as another comes to rest tenderly on his forehead. A whispered voice, sounding awestruck.

“He’s gotten so big. Oh, he’s just so beautiful like this. My boy.”

His heart stutters in his chest. It can’t be _him_. No. Not like this, not now, not when it’s nearly all over.

“I wish I could have been here, but you were right, of course. He’d never have accepted this. Thank you for taking such good care of him for me. For taking such good care of them both. I hope you’ve learned everything you hoped to find.”

Not like this.

 _No_ , he tries to scream, trying to shake his head, to break free of the restraints, but there is a tube in his throat and hands all over his body and his stomach clenches in another violent contraction, the pain mercifully distant now, though somewhere in the room a machine starts beeping loudly and the voices start to sound more urgent, fearful – 

“We need to get this little one out immediately,” a female voice shouts, and Face can only lie there as they prep him swiftly and slice him open once more, a little pressure and tugging and pulling the only thing he feels until – 

An absence, deep in his body.

A baby’s cry.

Then – 

“Would you like to hold your daughter, Colonel Smith?”

**Author's Note:**

> I had never intended to write a sequel to 'Impregnable', but I've been inspired thanks to some comments on that first story, in particular Spot_On60 who felt that "Hannibal had to have known" and Indigo_Angels who suggested that "It seems that this 'procedure' has been sanctioned from the very top..." 
> 
> The third and final part may or may not follow in a few days, if I ever feel brave enough to post it.


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